


amarsaĝ

by Megkips



Category: Fate/Apocrypha
Genre: Archaeological looting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 13:57:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8803507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megkips/pseuds/Megkips
Summary: Shirou Kotomine searches for relics, seeking the one that will summon the servant he desires





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [labocat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/labocat/gifts).



What sits in the box in front of Shirou Kotomine is, essentially, worthless. A chunk of a waterspout made of stone, originally in the shape of a lion or boar or some other fierce beast whose features have long been worn away by the water that flowed from its mouth and the ravages of time. There are millions of such water features in thousands of collections across the globe. He didn’t have to come back to the Vatican to look at this one.

He lifts the lid of the box carefully, oblivious to his surroundings. There’s nothing like the low lighting a museum’s basement to make such a simple action feel so powerful, and there’s nothing like a young man clearing his voice from behind to make Shirou jump.

“Father Kotomine,” the young man says, immediately apologetic for causing Shirou to jump. “I brought you the documentation for the item.”

“Oh!” Shirou says, turning in his seat as to make better eye contact with the museum assistant. He’s young, all skin and bones, maybe twenty three, with blonde hair and great big glasses that give his face an owl-esque quality. “Thank you very much, Romano,” he continues in Italian, extending a hand for the folder that Romano holds against his chest. “Does it have the paperwork too?”

“Paperwo--?” Romano stops in mid-sentence, gently smacking his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Right, I forgot that you were transferring this to the Eighth Sacrament’s custody. We have it all written up, but I have to get it from Father Manola’s office.”

Shirou smiles up at Romano, bright and empathic and understanding. “Why don’t you give me what you’ve got in your hands, and I can look everything over while you get all the legal documents?”

Romano nods, shoving the folder at Shirou quickly. “Right, right!” he agrees, turning on his heel and starting to run down the corridor. He’s halfway down when he yells out, “I’ll be right back!”

The words _take your time_ cross Shirou’s mind but not his lips, and he returns his attention to the box and its contents. With the lid gone, the spout stares up at him from atop a nest of decrepit tissue paper, ancient eyes locked onto his. Carefully, reverently, Shirou picks the spigot up with both hands and cradles it. 

A waterspout supposedly from the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. 

“You’re lovely,” he says to the long worn spout, almost expecting an answer. Silence is the only response, and Shirou strokes his right index finger along the sides of the stone. A mane, perhaps, or else just a decorative border. Either way, it is a remarkable piece if it's origins are genuine.

“Let’s see,” Shirou continues to himself, placing the spout down on the table so he can review the paperwork. “You were dug up in Iraq in the, hm. 1700s,” Shirou frowns, skimming the first page in the folder brought to him. “No exact location, but you were a gift to a cardinal, since you came from the gardens of-- a great big ink smudge,” he finishes with a heavy sigh. “Naturally.”

The spout stares back up at him in silence.

“Well,” Shirou continues, undaunted. “You certainly seem to be what I’m looking for. I’m just not sure if I can have you loaned out to me for forty years. These Grail cycles,” he says, shaking his head. “The only advantage is that it gives me time to gather what I need. And to think I’ve wasted twenty when I could have simply come to the Vatican first.”

Not that those twenty years had truly been a waste. After the disaster of the Third Holy Grail War, Shirou had been beyond grateful to Risei Kotomine for taking him in and ensuring that he would have some sort of support between the Third and Fourth Grail War. Beyond clothing and immediate shelter, Shirou had been whisked to Rome and made a part of the Eighth Sacrament, in no small part because they would spend little time questioning Shirou’s lack of aging and complete devotion to the fight to come. Besides, they could send him on assignments and keep him outside of the Vatican itself. The whole place was at odds with the version of Christianity Shirou had grown up with - all catechism and works with humble surroundings, not the millennia of accumulated wealth that the Vatican has - and being out in the field in desolate places felt so much more _right_ to him. Learning all of this, becoming comfortable, adapting to the modern era properly, it had all taken time and energy. Never mind the Second World War that threw everything into chaos.

“Ah well,” Shirou says with a content sigh, giving the spout another content pat. “I’ve found you now, and I really should be wearing those fancy cotton gloves to handle you, shouldn’t I?”

“You really ought to be!” comes Romano’s voice from down the corridor, announcing the assistant’s return. “But I forgot to give you any, so that’s my fault!” he shouts over his own footsteps, scampering down the way. Romano nearly slams into the small table Shirou is seated at, but stops just short. “Okay, here’s the paperwork,” he says, offering Shirou a stack of papers and a pen. “Father Manola said he talked to you and that there’s a forty year loan on this, but he’ll want status reports every five years so that this doesn’t get lost.”

“Reasonable,” Shirou agrees, taking the papers and starting to read them over. He mouths the words to himself to ensure complete comprehension of the pages’ contents, nodding along every so often. Five year status reports to Manola and then whoever comes after him. Shirou is the primary signature and ultimately the safety of the item rests on him. All damages will be paid by him as well, if they occur, and the item must be returned within forty five years to the day by Shirou or another member of the Eighth Sacrament. Satisfied, Shirou places the paperwork down on the desk and scribbles his name down on the dotted line in the Western fashion..

“Here you go,” Shirou says, offering Romano the signed papers. “I’d like copies for my records too, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, of course,” Romano says. “If you’re done, you can pack this thing up and I’ll meet you in the office. Although, Father?”

“Yes?”

“May I ask why you’re taking this item in particular? There’s a lot of similar things here that are in far better condition.”

Shirou’s smile is nothing short of indulgent as he says, “Personal research.”

***

No one looks twice at Shirou as he makes his way through the thin stream of people daring to brave London in the wet and the cold. It strikes him as odd – a priest almost always gets a side eye or two when he has his clerical collar on, and his hair usually draws the attention of at least someone. But then again, it is the nature of the English to ignore such things and Shirou can be content with that, especially since London seems so much more set on registering its dissatisfaction with authority. At least, its music scene does, which is a great contrast to ten years ago in 1968 when the whole place felt like it simply wanted to take you by both hands and spend a day at the park with you staring at the sky. The lack of acknowledgement is easier; it helps Shirou move along and prevents the compulsion of making eye contact with whoever is gawking and offer him a smile.

 

“Hn,” he says softly, looking up at the street sign posted on the corner. “Should be this street.”

 

When Shirou turns down the corner, New Bond Street opens before him, all glorious ornate facades and shops with banners happily displaying their name and how long they’ve been there for, or else when the original store was established. He knows which banner to look for, and with eyes upward, Shirou hardly registers the puddles that he goes through, sending dirty water flying up the legs of his trousers and soaking his ankles. It is entirely unpleasant and damp, but easily ignored as the black awning of Sotheby’s comes into view. A scant few items in the display window announce what he has come here for today: a one day auction of Mesopotamian antiquities, slated to start an hour ago.

 

"Darn," Shirou says to himself, nearly swearing as he looks from the clock across the street to the poster, then back. The item he has in mind isn't first or second or third, but there's no way to judge the speed of the auction. So he quickens his pace as he marches through the doors of Sotheby's and tries not to hurry along the woman who helps to get him a paddle and explain the bidding process to him.

 

Not that Shirou needs the primer. He's done this before in Paris and Saudi Arabia and Jerusalem and Tokyo, but it is the woman's job and he feels no desire to prevent her from doing that - or else get her in trouble for failing to follow protocol. He leaves her with a polite enough thank you, then makes his way into the main room of the auction house.

 

What is before him is a medium-sized crowd composed mostly of Westerners, several of them standing to make it clear that the item that's on the block - a carved relief from Uruk, 10th century BC, depicting the legendary king Gilgamesh wrestling with Enkidu - is something that they will get today or so help them. Shirou smiles apologetically as bored eyes from others in the crowd fall on him, and he eventually finds a seat to the left side of the room, on the aisle.

 

The relief's price continues upward as Shirou settles into his seat, and finishes at a remarkable £850,000 from a private collector. No groans or applause fills the room with the end of the bidding war, there is only the auctioneer clearing his throat and announcing that they will now be moving on to the next item - a hair pin, also from Uruk, supposedly part of the Inanna temple complex.

 

The floor opens up to a flurry of bids, giving Shirou time to leaf through the auction book that he was given upon entering the building. He's browsed it already, but for the sake of knowing how soon he'll need to be ready, he leafs through the glossy pages until he finds the lot he has come all this way for: number 87, a cylindrical seal supposedly belonging to Queen Shammuramat, long thought to be the historical basis for Semiramis. In the Grail's language of mythology and legend, Shirou knows that it would guarantee Semiramis’ arrival more certainly than any other item he's procured so far. The fact that the seal - ivory, five centimeters in length - shows doves flying over the Tigris - is simply further proof that it is exactly what he needs.

 

"Shame about the price," he says to himself as the hair pin's price goes up and up. "Who has ten thousand pounds lying about?"

 

The Eighth Sacrament is, in theory, paying for all of this. After all, the next Grail War will need a supervisor, and if they could have someone to participate as well, then all the better. Shirou was the perfect candidate, and his proposal for acquiring artefacts gave him a buying budget that translated into twenty five thousand pounds for this auction, plus additional funding for travel and anything else needed if he failed to win this particular auction. Still, it felt wrong to be using such a great sum of money from the Church when Shirou knew full well that it could be used for a million other and better uses. Food and shelter for those who needed it most, living wages for those on missions in the worst parts of the world, and yet all of these things were nothing compared to a piece of stone thought to belong to a queen.

 

Shirou sighs at the thought, trying to force it aside. Lot 85 comes and goes, followed by 86, and when the auctioneer announces, "Lot eighty seven," Shirou Kotomine doesn't hide how visibly he perks up. There’s no pretext to the process either, only the man’s voice announcing, “Bidding starts at ten thousand pounds - do I hear eleven thousand?”

“Eleven,” Shirou says automatically, holding his sign card up as well. There’s a quick round of others joining in, spiking the price to twelve, then thirteen, then sixteen in a matter of seconds. Shirou doesn’t even turn to face his competition - his eyes remain fixed on the seal that feels a million miles away on stage - and the price continues to rise.

Eighteen. Nineteen. Nineteen thousand five hundred. Shirou smiles as the first five hundred is added, knowing that some have reached the end of their budgets already. There’s another thousand added on, and once he declares that he will happily pay twenty-one thousand dollars for the seal, all other offers top.

“Last chance,” the auctioneer says, his eyes finding the last man to bid on the seal. Shirou imagines that the other bidder must shake his or her head no, because the next words to leave the auctioneer’s mouth are, “Sold for twenty one thousand. Next up, lot eighty eight--”

Shirou doesn’t bother to look at lot eighty eight. He simply flips open the back of his auction catalog and skims the procedure for picking up any items won, and hightails it to the appropriate part of the auction house to take care of the dull, dreary paperwork. All of the money comes out of his personal checking account, he leaves the address that says he lives in Father Risei Kotomine’s parish in Fuyuki, and takes the tiny little box that has the seal within it along with all the paperwork.

“I’m not going to open you until I get back to the hotel,” he says to the box, looking from it to the rain outside of the window. “Although I think I might call a cab to minimize your time outside.”

Like the waterspout before it, there is no response from the seal. But there is a warmth to the box that the spout lacked, a trace of prana perhaps, and it sends a chill up Shirou’s spine. No other item has responded like that before, and he imagines that such a feeling may help to find other ways to reach out to his intended servant.

***

For some reason, Jerusalem has quite a few art dealers.

Shirou can only figure that it is simply because of the city’s age. He has a reason to be here, and he intends to focus on that and that alone. Speaking to Middle Eastern dealers about anything coming out of the area with a date of the 800s BC - no, no, BCE, he must use the right dates with the right people - has finally yielded a result.

In this case, the result is a tiny second floor gallery overlooking, offering a view of the modern city. In the farthest distance, the Dome of the Rock glitters. But this isn’t the Old Town. This area was probably outside of city limits when the Old Town was new.

“Hebrew, Japanese, or English?” a voice comes from behind Shirou, pulling him out of his thoughts. He turns only to come face to face with the gallery’s owner, a woman named Julia de Francoeur, a French dealer who, like all other French women, seems to be of indeterminable age and have the ability to make anything, even the giant shoulderpads that Shirou imagines the 1980s will be mocked for in the future, look painfully stylish. 

“It isn’t often I’m given a choice,” Shirou replies warmly in French. “But Japanese, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Julia replies, her Japanese slightly stilted but perfectly serviceable. “It gives me a chance to practice.”

“Thank you. Now, you said you found an item that meets my criteria?”

“Yes. Please, this way.”

De Francoeur’s gallery is a small thing, no bigger than a one bedroom apartment. Items sit inside carefully cared for glass display cases, gem toned walls behind them, offsetting the colors of the treasures within. Cloak pins made of gold with fine filigree work, mirrors whose value comes not from their owners, but from the mythological scenes depicted on the back. Shirou’s eyes linger on each case as Julia’s heels click on the marble floor, heading farther and farther into the gallery until she stops at a small case full of ancient combs.

Some of those that sit within boast a beautiful green, suggesting that they’re made of jade. Others are an off-white - ivory or bone, Shirou imagines - and a few others still are made of metal and given gems that no woman could afford in her lifetime, unless she was of a certain status. Shirou stares down, admiring each, satisfied in knowing that at least two of the pieces in there are Japanese. He can recognize a faded mon on one of the comb’s handles.

“These aren’t arranged by time period, are they?” he asks.

“I arrange by item type,” Julia says, gesturing at the gallery at large. “It is a choice. Now, the comb that you are interested in is the one on the right, here.”

Perfectly done red nails tap against the glass, indicating a rough-looking ivory piece. The tines have mostly fallen away thanks to age, and the relief on the handle is painfully worn. Shirou squints to try and make sense of what was once there, but he can only see wings and what might have once been a tree.

“It isn’t a very good piece,” he says finally. “Not in terms of how it survived time, at least.”

“I agree. The reason I even took it in was that it came from a site that used to sit right on the Euphrates.” 

Shirou’s face remains expressionless. “This item was permitted to leave Iraq?”

“Yes,” Julia says. It sounds ever so slightly practiced to Shirou’s ears, but he declines to press her further. “I bought it from an Iraqi dealer who gave me all the appropriate documentation.”

“I see,” Shirou says, his eyes going back to the comb. “The site had some semi-mythological significance, I take it?”

 

“A riverside residence of Semiramis.” Julia shrugs before bending down and seemingly disappearing behind the case. “Nonsense, of course; it was the house of a well-off family. Hardly anything remarkable or worth keeping, save for some jewelry and what looked like an in-home apothecary.”

“The apothecary sounds fascinating,” Shirou says over the sound of papers rustling. “Do you need help down there?”

“No, no,” is the response, Julia’s head now in the bottom storage area of the display case. “I have the files here, I just need to-- ah.” Her head pops out of the cabinet, and moments later, she produces a manilla folder. She stands, then offers Shirou the folder. 

“Everything’s in there, including the asking price. Take your time, look it over, and forgive me for leaving you for ten minutes; I have a phone call that I cannot possibly move.”

Shirou smiles warmly in response. “Do that, then come and find me.”

“Thank you. I can’t tell you how many times I scheduled and rescheduled this.”

Shirou laughs and waves Julia off down towards where he presumes her office is, then opens the folder. The documentation from the dig, the legal permissions, they’re there, and Shirou reminds himself to read them later. He only wants the price, and when his eyes fall on it, he blinks.

“That cannot be right,” he murmurs to himself. “The acquisition must have cost nothing, or else--”

Well, there are a million or-elses. Or else the comb is smuggled. Or else it is a fake. Or else the dealer was ripped off. Or else the documentation is lying. Or else or else or else.

Shirou places the folder down atop the glass case and turns his attention entirely to the comb, letting out a heavy sigh. “I think you’re worth a chance,” he says to the object. “If nothing else, it means someone with higher hopes won’t be disappointed if you’re not genuine.”

***

“Deus,” Shirou breathes out, shivering against the cold desert air. It counts as taking the Lord’s name in vain as far as he’s concerned - Deus was how the Jesuits first chose to translate God back when Christianity was new to the shores of Japan - but no one else would blink at it now. Not even the priests in the Vatican, mostly because Vatican II removed Latin from the Mass. “I should have worn more layers.”

As if to agree with him, a gust of wind sweeps over Shirou, sending the dust piles he’s put to one side and the other forward and towards the other excavators. The whole enterprise here in a long gone Mesopotamian village is painfully illegal. No one excavates without a permit. No one exports goods without the government’s approval. No one touches the ground of the most ancient civilization without the okay of those in power. Doing otherwise is a risk to one’s life, and one that Shirou Kotomine himself can hardly believe he’s doing.

The full moon overhead offers all the light that the looters in charge will permit on this site. Anything else would attract unwanted attention. Shirou can hardly disagree with the stance, but as his little trowel digs into layer after layer of dirt, he wishes it was otherwise.

The site was, at some point, a part of a small town that made its inhabitants rich by trade. House foundations had long since been exposed by the desert sands, but other villages and other digs took away from any potential exploration, leaving it vulnerable to, well, what was happening now. No one cared, and nobody would care about a tiny place like this. The only focus was what might come of it for the antiquities market. Really, the only reason that Shirou Kotomine had even caught wind of the dig was due to a visit to the National Museum of Iraq where he had accidentally overheard two curators muttering angrily about the site being exposed and that “something from the 800s should be better protected, especially with the animal bones there at the site.”

When Shirou had asked which animals, the reply of, “Usual livestock and unusually, a lot of doves,” had given him all the reason he needed to try and learn how to join the illegal excavation. Not that that part was easy - _illegal_ means _illegal_ \- although Shirou found that removing his clerical collar and saying that he was only interested in bringing the animal bones over to a Japanese middleman got him much further than keeping the collar on and admitting to nothing more than curiosity. 

 

Not that he was finding the bones he wanted. When the group arrived at midnight, he was directed towards a livestock pen that had already had some bones removed. Pigs, cows, chickens, they all came up as he moved from one spot to the next with irritating regularity. 

“Finding what you’re looking for?” asks one of the other excavators, passing by with a large box in his hand. Tissue paper peeks out of the top, and Shirou knows that at least someone has had a productive night.

Not bothering to hide his frustration, he replies, “No. I was interested in the dove bones that I’ve heard about, but--”

The excavator nods, before using his left arm to indicate an expanse of land just ahead. “You should have said so. We’ve found them there, like they were kept in a separate coop.”

“Obliged, thank you,” is the curt reply as Shirou picks himself up off the ground. The sandy ground blends in with his khaki trousers, but he brushes it all off anyway as he walks over to the indicated spot.

The spot features nothing more than a shallowly dug square with small bones sticking unevenly out of the ground. Shirou crouches down beside it immediately, his hands brushing gently against the bones. There’s a spark as he does so, his fingerpads catching onto the faintest hint of a connection. 

“You’re perfect,” he says, knowing the feeling for what it is. The seal he bought in London had the same sort of warmth, the same indication that there was a part of the item that could reach out across time and space and tap into the Throne of Heroes. “Now,” Shirou says, straightening up. “I think I need a box.”

***

Japan is a stranger to Shirou Kotomine. It has been since he was summoned in the 1930s, as World War II simmered slowly and steadily before erupting everywhere. The country he knew had been no more, and now with the new millennium under way, it was stranger still. Fast pace, bent on technology, and the definitions of what it will and won’t allow still hard for him to reckon with. He has made home after home in the Middle East for a reason, and truly, he only came to Japan to visit Risei Kotomine.

And as of yesterday’s burial, that reason is also gone. Shirou had found out through his single other contact at the Eighth Sacrament, and he had hoofed it to Japan just in time to make it to the wake. Kirei, ever the good son, had taken care of all the arrangements and went so far as to lead the burial Mass in Risei’s parish in Fuyuki.

It had been a strange burial. Shirou knew a few faces that appeared from his field work and, he imagined, Risei’s as well. There were polite nods of heads in his direction and murmurs of condolences when Shirou approached to say hello. Many other faces, Shirou suspected, were those of magi who knew the priest either as an unfriendly force or as an ally that encouraged them to both be good magi and good Christians. Kirei made a point to introduce Shirou to one Tokiomi Tohsaka during the wake. Shirou had heard the Tohsaka name since he was first summoned, and then through his conversations with Risei as the priest worked with the family and saw at least three generations come and go. 

It wasn’t an introduction that Shirou appreciated. There was no doubt in his mind that a member of the Tohsaka family could recognize a servant through a single handshake. The fact was confirmed after Kirei left the two to talk while he greeted others with a single, “Ah,” from Tokiomi.

Shirou, at the time, had only maintained a grave face, hoping that it might be clear that any discussion of Grail Wars or his own nature was off-limits. “It is nice to match a face to a name, Tohsaka-san.”

Tokiomi inclined his head slightly. He was well dressed for the occasion, his black suit perfectly tailored and his body language suggesting nothing but deepest respect. “I’ve heard many stories about you as well.”

“Of that, I am certain,” Shirou replied softly. “If you wish to continue this discussion, please wait until after the burial.”

“I wouldn’t dare do otherwise.”

Shirou had hoped, against all odds, that the matter might drop quietly after Risei was placed in the ground. He was proven wrong upon exiting the gates, as Tokiomi was waiting for him. Be it the emotional stress of bidding Risei a final farewell or else discomfort at being in Japan for so long, Shirou offered the mage a sour look along with a heavy, “What do you want to discuss then?” 

The statement betrayed all of Shirou’s displeasure. Causing Tokomi to look taken aback did precious little to lighten Shirou’s mood, but it did prompt him to get to the point. “The original Grail. I mean your person no harm, Amakusa-san.”

 

It was like being hit by a truck, hearing that name again. For over sixty years, Shirou had only heard _Ruler_ or _Shirou_ or _Father Risei._ Never Amakusa. Still, he offered Tokiomi a look of uncertainty. “It is not easy to take such words at face value.”

Tokiomi’s eyes glanced from the car waiting at the curbside to the road just ahead. The overcast clouds threatened rain and a breeze blew from the north, cooling the air. “We’ll speak of it out loud then, but perhaps at the mansion. I don’t trust these skies.”

“Here and now,” Shirou replied cooly. “Please, just tell me what your concern about the Grail is.”

The man looked put out at such a response. Magi were like peacocks, after all, in love with showing off their power and prestige. Driving around talking about shady magecraft deals was likely a part of the image that Tokiomi enjoyed projecting.

“I’ve heard tell that Gordes believes he can reactivate the Fuyuki Grail within a few years’ time. Father Risei indicated to me that you would likely be the overseer on the Church’s behalf if he was not capable of performing the task himself.”

Shirou nodded. “All true so far. The Church has been monitoring his home base in Trifas, but I believe the Association is paying closer attention.” 

“ _Much_ closer,” Tokiomi confirmed gently. “They’ve also noticed your collecting tendencies.”

“Have they now?” Shirou’s lips thinned slightly.

“Relics for the smaller Grail Wars are precious,” was the explanation. “And when a man buys a few, it is noticed.”

“The Association can be subtle. Who knew.”

Tokiomi let out a soft laugh. “Regardless, there’s been speculation about who you are after. I wanted to give you this.”

Shirou didn’t know what to expect as Tokiomi reached into the pocket of his suit. What was withdrawn was a simple scrap of paper with a surname and a phone number, along with hours of when to call.

“Ryou Yamada,” Shirou read, before repeating it as a question and looking to Tokiomi for an explanation.

“A business associate,” Tokiomi explained. “Specializing in ancient Mesopotamian antiquities. I’ve acquired a few things that I wouldn’t let fall into anyone else’s hands from them. If you’re planning on hedging bets if you’re forced to take on a third role in the Grail War, I’d talk to them.”

Shirou pocketed the paper, before extending a hand to Tokiomi. “I appreciate it. You’ll be keeping an eye on Kirei, I trust?”

“I will,” Tokiomi confirmed, shaking the offered hand. “Please feel free to contact me when you can.”

“I’ll try to do so.”

Which is why Shirou is waiting to be buzzed into a towering Tokyo apartment block, unsure of what to expect beyond a promise of several items that were relevant to his interests. Finally, the door to the building swings open, and he makes his way quickly to the elevators in the lobby. 

The whole building is new, new, new. Spotless floors, open windows, and as the elevator opens, perfectly modern and simple-looking in calming white. He presses the button for the twenty-third floor, and the journey passes by all too quickly.

Doors open up onto a off-white corridor, but there is little distance to walk. The apartment he is looking for is beside the elevator, and he need only knock twice to arouse the owner, as instructed. The sound of locks clicking responds, until the door cracks open just enough to let him in.

What greets Shirou is a generously sized studio apartment dominated mostly by box after labeled box. It is impossible to see the walls, and Shirou knows he is gaping. He slips his shoes off almost as an afterthought, and scarcely regards his host as his eyes grow wider and wider. There is no hello from Shirou, no formalities, only the awestruck words of, “You live in the richest museum storage space in the world.”

“Thank you,” is the response, proud and pleased. “Please, this way.”

Shirou quietly follows Ryou into the den of boxes. It is impossible to tell any personal details about them. Their gender is impossible to tell based on name, their voice gives nothing away, nor does their appearance. It makes sense, of course. A follow-up call with Tokiomi had informed Shirou that Ryou had sold him what was believed to be the first fossil of a snake shedding its skin - something that could be used to summon the first Heroic Spirit - and so to be ambiguous as possible was within Ryou’s best interest.

Two chairs and a table surface as Shirou continues to stare at what surrounds him, and he takes his seat quickly. “Sorry,” he manages, finally tearing his eyes away and focusing on Ryou “I’m just impressed.”

“It is a lot of luck that has given me so much,” Ryou says quietly. They apparently came from a family of magi, but wasn’t one of those destined to take on the family crest. Or so Tokiomi had said. “Your request was very particular.”

“Aren’t all of your requests?” Shirou asks.

Ryou laughs. “I suppose so. I was only able to find three items that met the time frame, and the price I quoted to you on the phone is per-item. I believe that the head of the Tohsaka family made it clear to you that I do not haggle?”

“He did, yes,” Shirou says. “And the price is reasonable. Certainly no more than I would pay at an auction.”

The response from Ryou Yamada is to stand up and seemingly disappear into the boxes that dominate the apartment. Shirou watches as they are enveloped by the cardboard, tilting his head as all sounds cease. Minutes pass until Ryou reemerges with a box in their hands, the top half open and bubble wrap pouring out. It is hardly professional-looking but then, Shirou reasons with himself, why should he expect it to be? The box is placed down on the low glass coffee table, and the contents carefully unpacked.

A gold set of dangling earrings with brilliant lapis lazuli stones. A mirror depicting Queen Semiramis herself admiring her beauty in another mirror, surrounded by doves. A single bowl of silver with a royal name half inscribed, half worn away, depicting a hunt. All from the right place. All from the right time period. Shirou breathes out before leaning forward to inspect them further.

“These are all very fine.”

“They are,” Ryou agrees. “Oh--! Right!” 

Shirou watches as Ryou turns around and reaches behind their chair, pulling out a pair of white cotton gloves and offering them to Shirou. “Here.”

“Thank you.”

It takes no time at all for Shirou to put the gloves on, and within moments, he is running his fingers over each item. He’s long since learned what to feel for now to make sure the artefact will get him some sort of Heroic Spirit. There needs to be a sort of warmth, a glow, an electric spark, something that responds to what _he_ is to ensure that it will work. There’s nothing from the bowl as Shirou picks it up, and he places it back down within moments of touching it. The mirror is next, and the reaction is there. Shirou doesn’t jump, doesn’t because he can feel Ryou’s eyes on him, perhaps waiting for confirmation of what is and isn’t a proper summoning artefact, but he does make a quiet note of it. The earrings prove to be similarly inert, and he places them back down as carefully as he can.

“I’ll take the mirror,” Shirou says calmly, peeling the gloves off. “Via mail, please; I can’t take that through customs.”

“Believe me,” Ryou replies, beaming. “I can get around that. Wire me the money, I don’t accept payment during viewings.”

“Very well.”

The goodbyes are brief and businesslike, and Shirou returns to the world outside of the apartment within the space of five minutes. It feels too easy, acquiring that mirror, but Shirou supposes that it is perhaps a counterweight to Risei’s death. If there can ever be such a thing.

Quietly, Shirou walks away from the apartment building. He has a plane to get to soon, and he must pick up his luggage from his overnight hotel.

***

In the end, he uses the doves.

They’re all good items, really, the things he’s collected over the years. The relics he’s spent his precious little money on, the artefacts he’s dug up with his own two hands. But the Grail loves legend most of all, and Semiramis was raised by doves. 

So doves it must be.

Each and every one of their little bones, all stored in a perfect flat box designed to hold the contents perfectly still, is placed in the center of the summoning circle. Shirou stares down at all of the blood on the floor, and stops so he can push all other thoughts from his mind. 

A single breath.

“Repeat five times. But destroy each when filled," he begins. The spell for a summoning is long, longer than a prayer, longer than the catechisms that Shirou learned as a child. But he repeats every word from memory, makes sure that every inflection is right, and doesn’t turn his eyes away from the blinding white light that begins to fill the stone room playing host for the summoning. Shirou offers up prayers in his words, both to Deus and to the Grail, for success.

Shirou doesn’t know which one has answered his pleas. All he knows is that as the light fades and the smoke clears, a single, solitary figure dressed all in black is standing within the circle. The faintest smell of jasmine surrounds her, and when she speaks, her voice could rival the clearest churchbell. 

“I ask of you,” she says, her eyes meeting Shirou’s with a cold certainty. “Are you my master?”

Shirou’s face could light up the entire world.

“If I have the honour of speaking to Queen Semiramis, then the answer is yes.”

Semiramis - Assassin - only smiles and says, “Then let us begin upon this enterprise.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide, Labocat! I loved all of your prompts so much, but your Apocrypha one that stuck with me the most. I was also really struck by the fact that Fate/Apocrypha mentions that Shirou spent much of his time between the third Grail War and the events of Apocrypha in the Middle East searching for artifacts, save attending Risei's funeral. It seemed like such an interesting time in Shirou's life, and something that might be a true foundation block for their relationship.
> 
> Thanks to S. for the beta, and F. for all of the help with translation and research.
> 
> Amarsaĝ translates as dove in old Akkadian.
> 
> Shirou's use of the word "Deus" for "God" comes from how Christianity was first preached in Japan. It was the Jesuits doing it, and they were working from Latin, so they always used "Deus" in their texts. 
> 
> While actual Catholicism doesn't come into play too much, it is important to keep in mind that Shirou would have also been dealing with the reforms of Vatican II during his lifetime, in contrast to how Christianity was originally introduced in Japan. The original transmission came from primarily Jesuit missionaries, with an emphasis on mass baptisms and simple Catechisms due to initial issues of translating Latin into Japanese. In turn there was also a big emphasis on relics and holy water, because such things were easier to get across in translation. This eventually lead to the Dochiriina Kirishitan, the standard text for both catechumens and preaching. It was a Q&A format that refuted Shintoism, and elaborated on aspects of Christianity that the Japanese audience wanted to know. It emphasized Christ dying for the world's sins and the love that the action involved, as well as angels, saints, sin, church teachings, and commandments, but little on the Holy Trinity among other topics ignored. It laid out five essential laws (Sunday mass, fasting, sacraments on Easter, once- yearly confession, and tithing), but above everything else, the emphasis was on salvation in the afterlife.
> 
> The historical Shirou Amakusa had a father who was from the samurai class and converted via the daimyo he served, which means Shirou grew up within the faith. He might have had a better education than others, but his family were basically working as peasants at the time because his father's daimyo passed away. The miraculous nature of Shirou is impossible to determine, it is likely that he had an actual hand in strategy during the rebellion, as well as rallying troops and engaging in the faith by posting icons and teachings to bolster morale. (Thanks to F. for the Japanese history lessons regarding the historical Shirou.) 
> 
> This is all to say that Shirou is very, very mixed with the reforms of Vatican II because the accessibility to the masses is in fact an excellent thing, but given the version of Catholicism he was raised with in Japan, with the roots in the Dochiriina Kirishitan and then external pressures for the rebellion (taxation and famine coupled with persecution of Christianity and the local lord wanting to move up the hierarchy), it probably would still be a very, very unfamiliar iteration of the faith to him.


End file.
